


Strays in the Wasteland

by Cranky



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), fury road
Genre: Gen, RP character backstory, Suicidal Themes, pre-Fury Road
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:52:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cranky/pseuds/Cranky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A background for an OC I might use for RP later, also an excuse to imagine yet another version of Warboy culture. Posted here for the convenience of the handful of people who are interested :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wasteland

The engine sputtered one last time and died.

Silence. The driver sank into it, staring ahead, one hand still on the wheel and the other cupped around the gear shift, as if there were still something to be done. His foot was pressed down on the clutch and though the engine had stopped spinning, he was afraid to let go.

Silence. Not even wind, today- the only sound of the wasteland, if you stayed far enough away from the raiders, the scavengers, the murderous tribes. It was so quiet, you could hear the grains of sand trickling down a ledge somewhere, murmuring…

“Shit!” the driver slammed his foot on the brake. Grains of sand murmuring! The damn car had started rolling back down the slope, that was the noise. A moment later, it would have slipped off the rise and bounced towards the rocks.

He pulled the handbrake and breathed deep, wishing that he hadn’t realised. Sure, it would have hurt- or maybe not. Point is, it would have been out of his hands. Now that he’d stopped the car, the chance was gone.

It was getting hot inside the cab. Cooking to death wasn’t the easiest way to off yourself.

Just a few more drops of guzzoline would have gotten him to the top of the rise. And then? Shit, he’d planned this badly. Someone might have said he didn’t want to die, after all. Someone else might have said it was fate.

Well, there was no one there to say anything at all. That had been the idea.

“Nothing’s working out,” he muttered, kicking at the wheel. The car didn’t budge. Good brake. Not like on that pick-up, six months back. Good engine, too- nothing fancy, but it kept going, didn’t it? Had a spare tire in the back, a wealth beyond measure. Would have almost been a shame to let it all go.

All of that, and not enough guzzoline.

He started up the hill. The car had stopped only a few dozen feet from the top- the sky was blue up ahead and the line of the edge promisingly sharp. Rust, but it was hot. He’d die of thirst, maybe. He could empty out his last bottle. Give the lizards a party. He could…

The wasteland stretched out before him. The top of the hill was everything he’d hoped it would be- the scrap of road stopped only a few feet beyond the climb. He would have flown for an eternity before crashing against the rocks below.

“Just a little longer, damn you,” he turned back towards the car. With its broken headlights and battered hood, it looked almost apologetic.  _But you don’t need me, do you?_

“Don’t you dare,” the driver growled. It was bad enough without imagining a car was giving him advice.

The rustpile was right, though. He didn’t need it to ride off the cliff. All he had to do was take a step. Sure, it wouldn’t look as grand, but who was watching?

No one was watching. That had been the idea. Get away from everyone. Get away from people and their talk of faith, of hope, of purpose.

Dying, now, that hadn’t been the idea. Not really. Not until a week or two ago, when he’d made inventory and realised he did not have enough food, water, or guzzoline to get back anywhere.

He turned away from the cliffside and sat down, then after a moment, shuffled a little way down the hill so as not to be so close to the edge.

“You are pathetic.”

—

Some hours later he woke up. The Wasteland was still quiet, and he was still alive, getting sunburn. Damnit.

He rolled over on his belly and crawled back up to the ledge.  _Gotta open up those bottles before I go, for the lizards._ Wait, no. Lizards? Fuck lizards. Someone could be riding past, could use the supplies. He should go back and close the doors, roll up the windows so the desert doesn’t get in. Disconnect the battery. Take the keys out of the ignition. Prop some rocks up against the wheels in case that brake does fail.

He was at the very edge now, crawling so low he could taste the dirt. Should empty my pockets, he thought. Leave a little survival pack up here. A gift. Knife, twine, all useful. Could write a note. Would make a good story. Got no ink though. No paper. Ah, well.

If he slipped off like this, he would bounce off the cliffside, break his back before he was halfway down. What he should do, really, is take it at a run. Dive and fly. Don’t need guzzoline to do that.

“Shit, ow.” Something flashed against his eyes, blinding and distracting. Far away…no, not that far. Half a day’s walking, maybe. There was a mountain…a tower, more like, all rock, dark red against the sky, huge. And there was a light flashing midway up. Long flash…long flash…short.

“Don’t know your code,” he muttered- whatever the message was, it made no sense to him. He amused himself with the thought of flashing something back. Why not? Make them come. Get the car. He wouldn’t need it.

“Shit!” A chunk of rock broke off the ledge where he’d pressed down with his elbow, and he rolled back, skidding down the hill to safety. “Shit.”

In the noonday light, the car took on a mocking expression. The driver gave it the finger.

 


	2. Citadel

“Looming,” he rolled the word around in his mouth, because that’s what the rock towers were. He’d had hours to observe them, coming closer and closer, and in addition to the signal flashing twice more, he could now say with all certainty that there was green up on the top. Not that that was anything to get excited about- it was high up there, and closely guarded no doubt, and he would surely be shot on sight.

Keep walking, then.

There was a little dip, and then a hill to walk over before he could see the foot of the towers. They were crawling. It wasn’t the heat over the sand, playing tricks on the eyes, it was people, hundreds of people, panted with dirt like the desert, and likely just as hungry.

Behind a boulder, he paused to think. How about getting ripped to shreds by a desperate mob? That sound good?

Nah. Maybe.

He made a cautious approach, slowing down as the stench got stronger. Plenty of people with not enough limbs to go around. Lumps, sores, festering wounds to spare. And still, among all the beastly grunts and wheezing agony, among the shrieks of anger and squabbles over scraps, he could hear people talking about hope. Just couldn’t get away from that word no matter how far he went.

They turned to look at him, all at once- no, not at him. Behind. Far behind, in the desert, a cloud of dust speeding towards the crowd, soon to become a band of men, painted white, their faces like skulls. Riding like mad, spitting fire, wasting guzzoline. Shrieking some kind of victory. Up on the towers, something shrieked louder and gears began to turn, chains began to move and clatter.

The band roared in. Three bikes, two cars, all terror.

“Witnessed!” one man screamed as they came to a halt. “Charger and Strike have been witnessed! Three miles West of Checkpoint Tche, they took down six Buzzards and were witnessed!”

Before he could wonder what it all meant, a roar shook the towers. “Witness!” There were hundreds of white faces up there.

“Witness the fallen! Witness their sacrifice to V8!” the man screamed again. “They ride ahead of us to Valhalla! They walk with the Immorta!”

Each time, the hundreds replied “Witness!” He watched in awe as a platform was lowered from the heights. In just a few moments, the white warriors were lifted up, and the crowd surged. Diseased hands clawed at the rivets and chains. Bodies dangled from the platform as it rose, eventually dropping off one by one and falling into the maw of the crowd. Hope. He looked up to where the metal rails snapped into place and the great cogs stopped, counterweights swaying gently.

“Nothing but death up there,” a woman stepped up next to him. Old or young, it was hard to tell. Her hair was caked with mud.

“Not much but death down here,” he answered, uncertain. “Everyone’s trying to go up.”

“By his hand we will be raised up,” she said. “And then sent to die again. Up there, down here, or like those boys, out in the desert.”

“Who are they fighting?”

“Anyone. Everyone. Anything that moves. You’ve come from far away,” she wondered. “Someplace the Immortan’s Kamikrazy Warboys never reached? Should have stayed there.”

“Couldn’t stand it. Too much hope.”

“There’s always hope,” she laughed- a sickening cackle. “Wherever there are people, you will find it.”

“Up there?”

She shook her head. “Nothing but death up there,” she repeated.


	3. Up There

Witness.

The moon was high and another cold night was passing. Witness, he thought. His skin prickled with the heat of the day’s walk, his feet were sore, his stomach empty. There was no water- someone had stolen his bottle. Or perhaps he had lost it, like a fool.

Witness.

 

Sleep could bring relief, but he would have to wake, eventually, and another day would begin. Why hadn’t he let that car roll? Why had he wasted that last shot on the crow? Why hadn’t he taken a leap off that ledge, but walked carefully down instead and decided to visit this pit of disease?

Because he’d seen green up on a cliff, and thought maybe it wasn’t a mirage.

What use is green to a dead man?

But there was green up there, that was sure, and water. He traded a scarf and gloves and two spare shoelaces for stories. Immortan Joe, praise him, ruler of this Citadel, pumped up water from the deep, and dispensed it generously every two days. No more could be given, no more could be spared. His half-life Warboys protected the city from raiders and scavengers. By Joe’s hands, they would all be lifted up.

Something odd about the way they talked, though, with their eyes darting about like they were chasing sunspots. Something sick.

Witness. The cry had lodged itself in his mind and sent shivers down with every echo. Witness the fallen. They took six Buzzards down.

He weighed his options, drawing a line in the sand for each. Before long, there was a criss-cross pattern at his feet, and no sense to be made of it. Where will you go? I don’t know.

Then why are you going? What do you hope to find?

Nothing. I don’t hope to find… I don’t want to find anything.

Then why are you going?

He had to crane his neck to find the moon again. It was about to sail behind the peak of the westernmost tower. A light blinked up there, not too far from the ground. Not too far at all.

Why are you going?

“I don’t know, but I can’t stay here,” he replied to no one at all, and started climbing.


	4. Witness

He slipped twice, but held on. Cursed himself each time, then pushed off and found another grip. The light really wasn’t far. It was a little terrace, a lookout. Once he got up there, he would probably find the barrel of a gun staring right at him.

He gripped the edge of the outcrop and pulled himself up, ready to eat lead.

 

Nothing. Silence. The light was a battered guzzoline lamp, left behind on a ledge. Behind it, a gap in the rock led into darkness.

“Witness,” he muttered, and slipped in. Ladder after ladder, he made his way up until another gap opened onto a maze of corridors. He could smell rust and water.

A white arm grabbed him from behind. The darkness spun, and he was up against the rock, a knife to his throat, a skull in front of his face.

“Where’d you come from?” the death’s head asked.

“I want to…I want to join up!”

“You what?” The Warboy paused, eyes glittering, ready to burst out laughing.

“Want to be a Warboy. Like you.”

A punch to the gut instead of the expected laughter. The driver doubled over, wheezing.

“And I wanna be king of Gastown. How’d you get in here? Didn’t ride the lift, did you?”

“Scaled…Eastern wall…terrace…”

“The lower lookout? That’s where you got in? Oh fuck me, someone’s going to eat shit for that. Who’s on watch? Rustfuckers. You climbed that? Not bad for a Wretched. But this is level seven, it’s a looong way down from here, mate…” 

“What’s it take to join up?”

“You don’t join up. You get lifted up. Get chosen. Smegs like you, they get harvested. You’ll make a good bloodbag.”

“No, I want to-” Another punch.

“Don’t care what you want.”

”I know where you can get a real shine car!” Predictably, this got the warboy’s attention.

“Filth and lies.”

“No, swear on my life.You think I walked here?” He waited until the warboy loosened his hold. “Can’t take you there if I’m dead. Can’t take you there unless-” he coughed, the warboy’s forearm crushing his throat once again.

“You tell me where, bloodbag, or I’ll let all your juices out.”

“If you… stop calling me that!” Whatever it was. Nothing good. And this wasn’t working. It should have worked, but this one was too wary- too worried about losing his prize. He’d kill him if he wasn’t sure.

_Wait, wasn’t that the idea?_

“It’s a good car, real good, hardly a patch on the tires, engine’s clean, runs fine, only I ran out of guzzoline. Plenty supplies in the back. It’s yours to take. But you gotta be quick before someone else gets to it. Just…”

The warboy delivered a blow and the driver collapsed, breath sucked out of his lungs. He didn’t know how much time passed, but dark spots were still circling before his eyes when the warboy dragged him up and pulled him down a corridor. There was water dripping down the walls- half-unconscious, he trailed a finger to catch droplets. Left, left, and then right, down and up a bit. The place was an anthill. Left again, then through a brighter hallway, and just as his head stopped spinning he was pushed to his knees. The floor was tile. Real tile.

“The hell’s that?” The voice came forward; it had heavy boots on. They were surprisingly clean.

“Found a stray, Imperator. Crawled in through a hole, he says. Wants to do war with us. Wants to honour V8.”

The driver raised his hands weakly, mimicking the gesture he’d seen, which made the warboy snicker.

“There’s no place for Wretched at the altars,” the Imperator was less amused.

“He’s no Wretched! Look at him!” Up he went again, yanked up by the scruff of his collar, like he weighed nothing at all.

He could see the Imperator now in his full glory, a tall and brown man, forehead shining with black grease. The soft clinking he’d heard were the chains dangling from his belt.

“I knocked him around a bit so he don’t look so chrome now, but he’s good for war. Climbed that wall, didn’t he? Got past the sentinels. He can drive, he can fight…what else can you do, smeg?”

Great sands, help me. “I can…fix…”

“Fixes stuff! Good for a blackthumb! What else? Come on now.”

If he’d only stop shaking him. “I can read…”

This caused some consternation. “Got use for that, too!” the Warboy finally declared, determined to praise his find. “Let’s keep him, Boss.”

The Imperator approached, his large hands moving, and for a moment it seemed that he would either pull open the driver’s jaws to check his teeth, or snap his neck.

He did neither. “Stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” he barked. “That’s no Pup, Warboy. How you gonna train him? Looks mediocre to me. Deader than half-dead already. Throw him back down.”

“No… he’s good for it,” there was a tremble in the Warboy’s voice.

“What’s it to you, boy? You bored? Ain’t got enough to do?”

The car. The driver looked at the Warboy- it was all about the car, a shine piece of salvage he could claim all for himself,  but if he told the Imperator, he wouldn’t even get to smell the exhaust.

“You take him to the Organic. Put him to use somewhere, but not in my cohort.” Put him to use. What did those poor souls down there say? Bloodbags. Donors. Treadmill slaves, walking until they fell.

_Got nothing against death, just not…_

“I’m good for it,” he almost shouted. The Imperator raised an eyebrow. “Good for war. Better than him I reckon.”

“Ha! Smeg.”

“Got up here, got past your sentinels,” he repeated his list of victories. “Can drive, can fix things, can read, can speak different languages, can fight, can-”

The Imperator raised his hand. Enough. Was he convinced?

The driver looked at the Warboy. Different languages. Right.

He lunged. The Warboy slammed against the wall with a soft noise, and there was a split second when surprise was to the outsider’s advantage. A moment later everything hurt. They grappled and threw punches for a while until the outsider found himself pinned to the ground, the Warboy’s fingers once again around his throat, and a fist coming straight for his face.

His ears rang. No, that was laughter. The Warboy released him and stood above him, prodding playfully with the tip of his boot.

“See that? He’s proper kamikrazy!”

The imperator’s boots came forward, too. Steel tips. Should he get up?

“Fine. Train him up. See what you can do. But you answer for him. Understood? Any trouble and you’ll both go to the treadmills.”

—

“Let’s get you fitted out,” the Warboy did not believe in wasting time. “That’s gotta come off,” he yanked the driver’s hair, “and I get the shirt.”

“What are you going to do with…”

“Gears gets the jacket. I owe him.” He stopped dead to stare at the driver’s legs. “You can keep the boots and all, trousers are fine. Got anything shine in those pockets?” he asked and immediately began to help himself. He cut a protest off with a hand around the driver’s throat. Again.

“You owe me,” he growled, and resumed his scavenging, coming away with two folding knives, a length of tarred twine, a chipped lens, and several other trinkets, all of which he transferred to his own seemingly bottomless pockets. “You owe me,” he repeated. “This, and the car. And I swear, if it’s not there, if you lied to me, I’ll trash you myself. Come on.”

Being shaved wasn’t unpleasant. The driver was sure whole nests of lice fell away with the tangled hair. But then there was the brand.

“You shout, you’re mediocre,” the Warboy warned. “Even Pups don’t shout.”

He didn’t either. But he passed out.

—-

Wet. Earthy smell. Someone was smearing something across his face, poking at his nose and eyesockets.

He woke up to see three ghostly pale faces. Two had darkened eyes, one was pure white. Children. Pups.

“Gerroff.”

“Gotta be all white to be a Warboy!” one of them barked, and slapped a handful of clay across his mouth.

A fourth face appeared- it was the Warboy. His Warboy.

“Don’t give him any grease. Ain’t earned it yet.”

 

 


	5. Resource

_I think I made a mistake._

Not the first one, not the last, apparently, but thoughts were catching up to actions now, and both hurt. Stray ducked as a the wooden staff came at him, and sprawled on the ground, to the amusement of all. At least the sand was soft. Nothing else was.

 

“All right, all right,” Creak stepped out into the ring and calmed them down with a handwave. The room buzzed with anticipation. “All right, so he’s got two left feet, we’ll swap out his boots.” Laughter again. “You gonna sleep there?”

He got up, pretending his limbs weren’t screaming. “Soft as a Pup,” Creak continued. “Slow like he’s stuck in second gear. But you know, car with a busted gearbox, still can be useful. What’s this one good for?”

“Target practice!”

“That’s wasteful!” To Stray’s surprise, Creak did not find the quip funny. The Warboys quietened down. “Wasteful. We don’t waste. This is a resource,” he gestured. “This can be useful. If you can’t find use for it, that’s your lacking. Is he mediocre?”

Mutters, shrugs, a chuckle. Yeah? Yeah, he is.

“Don’t mean he’s trash. Take him out to do war, put him up front, that buzzard’s still gonna have to saw through him to get to you.”

“Like a shield.”

“Bait!”

“Bait, maybe bait,” Creak agreed, circling the stray, hands in his pockets. “Maybe something better. Maybe,” he glared at one of the Warboys, a grimacing fellow with a long gash across his chest, “maybe he’s gonna be more chrome than you.”

He spun suddenly, kicking up a cloud of dust, and Stray found himself on the ground again. What?

“If he learns how to stand up, that is.” They erupted in laughter, the tension broken. “Try him out!”  Rubbing the dirt out of his eyes, Stray could see Creak point to different Warboys. “Try him out for lancer. Take him to the shop, see if he can tell the intake from the exhaust. Give him powder to pack, if he doesn’t blow his fingers off, maybe he’s good. See how many punches he can take before he’s down. Have him clean the privy, I don’t care, but if you can’t find a use for him,” he was hollering now, “then I don’t know if I have a use for you!”

“Oh, and one more thing.” He kicked, sending Stray back down for another mouthful of sand. “He belongs to Dirt. You wanna complain, complain to him.”


	6. Room and Board

The rest of the day did not vary much in humiliation. Dirt decided to thoroughly test Stray’s proficiency with Warboy weapons, which was none. He challenged him to a climbing race, and they went head to head. He set up a shocking amount of balance exercises, grimacing throughout Stray’s progress. Finally, he handed the newcomer an explosive lance- a thunderstick, he explained, with duds instead of charges. His frown only grew deeper with every missed throw.

Dirt went muttering to the evening meal, Stray trailing behind, trying to observe but feeling overwhelmed. They stood in a long line of Warboys, all waiting to have rations served out into their various treasured receptacles. Dirt had graciously dug out a chipped enamel pot lid from his cache, but it was only a loan, and yet another thing Stray ‘owed him’ for.  The food was better than expected. Maggot stew- piping hot and and damn good after weeks of dried nothing. The water rations were fair.

“You don’t want for water here, do you,” he observed, looking across the cavern to where large pipes ran along the ceiling.

“Aqua-cola? Warrior’s reward, warrior’s duty. You won’t go thirsty here. Don’t think you can go wasting it, though.”

“You’re joking, right?” The Citadel must have been ridiculously rich in the stuff if that even crossed the Warboy’s mind. Stray had never met anyone who’d let a drop of water fall to the ground without wondering if it could still be licked off the rock.

But here, in some corridors, the rock itself sweated water. Aqua-cola, as they called it. Stray wondered where in the tower they were right now. He could not get his bearings inside the dark maze.

Dirt was no help there, too busy chewing to say a word. But another Warboy called Monkey had overheard and began an eager and very thorough explanation of the Citadel’s waterworks. Stray caught only a fraction of the lecture about pumps, pipes, reservoirs, tanks and the redistribution of the precious liquid around the Towers, but he was assured he was on the waterworks maintenance roster that week.

Dirt snorted. “So it’s a competition, now. Fucking Creak.”

“You could use his favour,” Monkey pointed out matter-of-factly. He rubbed Stray’s head before leaving.

“Gotta get that car,” Dirt muttered, staring after him. “Gotta get a bike first. All it needs is guzzoline?”

“Runs fine when the tank is full. It’ll be an hour’s ride, no more.”

“Good. We’ll try tomorrow. Keep your trap shut.”

As the day wound down, Dirt found a happy advantage at last: his many evening chores could be delegated to the newcomer as part of a payment for the debt. Stray decided not to contest this injustice. He felt numb, tired, incapable of finding a footing for his thoughts, and not even the monotonous task of scrubbing down a floor helped. It was the same tile floor he’d knelt on the night before, he reflected- and that was the only thought he could muster.

Finally the night returned and it was time to retire- or so Dirt claimed. Stray followed him down yet another corridor, though this time the walls were scratched with words and symbols. Sometimes, just letters that made no sense. Dirt tapped the rock as they walked, showing where he’d cut his name.

“This is our burrow,” he whispered. The room they were in was already heavy with breathing. Stray recognised some of the Warboys who had circled around him that morning, and others from the mess hall. Creak was not there, but he spotted Monkey lying on a ledge curled tight, fast asleep yet somehow still thieving a blanket from his neighbour.

“Here,” Dirt pointed to an uninviting spot by the entrance. He himself clambered up to a higher ledge. After a moment and some shuffling, he threw down a spare blanket with the usual “You owe me.”

The blanket stank of sweat and guzzoline. Stray laid it out over the bare floor. He could already hear Dirt begin to snore.

He lay down, and  closed his eyes.

No thoughts came.

None of the new doubts and musings and fears he had felt pack away inside him throughout the day emerged.

For the first time in many, many weeks, he found his mind empty and quiet.

He could sleep.


	7. Road Trip

Dirt shook him awake early. He’d made arrangements, as it turned out, with a bikeboy called Chopper, and bribed the morning watch with the knives he took off Stray. They hemmed and hawed, but gave in after some additional promises. A winch set in the side of the rock lowered them down quietly. 

Stray let go of the chain and watched it ride back up to the crevice. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking, to be truthful, trembling with something that was not quite fear, not quite excitement. He’d been inside the rock tower for a day and a half and already the outside felt too large. Too empty and, at once, too full.

Chopper revved the bike up, and they sped off, the silence filled with the roar of the engine. Stray kept looking back from the sidecar until Dirt yelled at him to give directions.

Faced with the vast Wasteland, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and pretend he didn’t need to open them again. The sun was too bright- and he didn’t have the dark under his eyes, like the other two. It wouldn’t have helped much, he thought. Sand dust wrapped itself around his face and hands. The white came off when he rubbed them together. It would keep him from burning, the Pups had said, but out in the blinding sun, he wasn’t so sure. He felt naked- well, he was half-naked. For once, things matched up.

“You said an hour at most!” They’d been riding longer than that. The Citadel was small behind them- too small. Stray felt a lump rise to his throat as he stared at rock after rock, not seeing a speck of difference between them.   
“Should be there soon!” he called out.

“If it’s not there,” Dirt shouted over the engine, “I’ll bury you up to your neck, cut your ears off, then piss on you and leave you for the sand ants.”

Stray's blood ran cold.  _Don’t wanna die like that, either._ In the bright sunshine Dirt was a menacing sight, the war paint around his eyes so dark he looked like a true skull come to life. The rifle slung over his shoulder completed the picture. Stray didn’t even have a sharp rock to lob at him.

Their driver, Chopper, wore goggles and a dirty scarf over his mouth. Stray didn’t know what Dirt had done to convince him to help them, but the bikeboy had looked sullen and suspicious from the very start. 

They were quite in the middle of nowhere when he slowed and stopped the bike.

“What are you doing?” Dirt demanded.

“We’re out here too long,” Chopper pulled down his scarf to reveal chapped and scarred lips. “Gotta go back.”

“Not without the car!”

“You can stay here and look, fine by me!”

“Chop, we had a deal. It’s out there, I swear. Tell him!”

“I didn’t walk here,” Stray tried to sound convincing. “It’s out there.”

“Where? Because the sun’s getting mighty high and patrols are going to come around soon, and I don’t wanna run into Creak and have to explain why I took you two out for a joyride. You know what I’m risking here, Dirt?”

“It’s gonna be worth it, Chop, trust me...”

“There! That hill!” Stray exclaimed suddenly. The sun was indeed getting high, high enough that it could flash off of the car mirrors and signal.  _Here I am, come get me!_

“Better be,” Chop growled, and they were off again.

Soon enough Dirt let out a victorious roar- the car was still there, parked on the slope exactly where Stray had left it. The Warboy leapt off the bike and after raising a thankful V8 to the sky, he wrapped his arms gleefully around the newcomer.

“You didn’t lie!” The embrace didn’t last half a breath- Dirt pounced on the car and opened all the doors to better rummage through it. The guzzoline canister lay abandoned in the sand.

“Look at all this stuff!” he whooped.

“That car’s a piece of shit,” Chopper declared, perhaps out of obligation to mock.

“It runs,” Stray shrugged.

“We’ll see,” Chopper said. “You want anything outta there, better move fast.”

Stray shrugged again. And now Chopper wasn’t looking at Dirt anymore. He stared at Stray, and moved closer, ever so slowly. Blink, and you’d miss it, but he was now almost stepping on his toes.

“All this stuff,” he said, calmly. “Supplies, a working car. You just…hand it over to us. Didn’t even have to chase you down.”

“I ran out of fuel.”

“And if you hadn’t?” the Warboy turned to glance at the canister. Stray followed his gaze, then took the lead. He nodded towards the top of the cliff.

“I’d have gone over,” he said quietly. Dirt was too busy rummaging around the car to hear them talk.

Chopper looked at the car, and at where its headlights were pointed. He was working it out. “Just like that?” he asked.

“Just like that.” Why’d you tell him?

The Warboy looked at him for a long time. “What a waste…” he finally replied, perplexed.

“We don’t waste,” Stray replied so quickly, he surprised himself. Chopper snickered.

“We, he says. Where did you even come from?” He looked out over the wasteland, eyes following the tire tracks that ran far, far South. A sudden clatter from the car distracted him. “Hey! Dirt! I get first pick, you rustfucker. You wanna walk back home?” he stalked over to fight the other Warboy for the supplies.

Stray watched them rummage. There really wasn’t much there. Things a man riding across a desert might find useful, sure. Tools. Blankets.

“Huh, look,” Dirt had found a wordburger with almost all of its pages still there, and it made him pause. He looked it over suspiciously, and flipped open the cover.

It took him some time to mouth out the words scrawled inside. “Who’s Jimmy?”

“Dunno,” Stray shrugged. Someone who had owned that book once. Got it for his day of birth. People used to celebrate those.

“Heh, Chop, look, it’s you,” Dirt pointed to a picture of an anxious creature with a long snout. Chopper ripped the book out of his hands.

“You know that’s forbidden,” he snapped. “And you know what? I don’t like this little expedition of yours.”

“Hey, Chop? Don’t start with me. You get first pick, all right, that’s fair, more than fair.”

“First pick of the shitstorm when they found out we knew about this and didn’t tell the Imperator. And that’s on top of what Creak will do to you. And him,” he pointed at Stray, “he shouldn’t even be out here.”

“How would you find the car without him?”

Chopper’s jaw dropped. He spread his arms out. “We’re on top of the only fucking hill for ten miles, you jackass! This is why you don’t go on raids. You never stop to think!”

“What’s to think about? We fill the tank, we drive back.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe you’re even gonna let him take the wheel?”

“The car’s mine!”

“Yeah, you try getting it up to the shop without anyone disagreeing. I should have stayed home,” Chop wound down. “Well, fucking fill ’er up and let’s get out of here before the Buzzards smell us. How’d you even get past them, huh?” he turned to the newcomer. Stray could do no better than shrug.

Chopper mimicked the gesture. “That’s your answer to everything?” he spat, and turned back towards the car.

And suddenly, like someone had cracked his skull open, the thoughts came back. Stray winced, twitched to shake them off- no, they demanded to be dealt with.  _What happened, two days ago? What happened on this hill? What did you do? What will you do now? Years of change in just two days, you can’t do that, you can’t just reload like a gun, you can’t just take a car that’s not yours and pretend like it’s always been your ride, you can’t change. You need to focus. You need to know what you want._

The Warboys and the car looked blurry, the sounds of their voices were dim. Stray couldn’t feel his body anymore.  _You can fight them, take the car back. You’ll die if you lose, but wasn’t that the idea?_

_But you can win. Take it back. Keep driving. Where were you going? Oh. You don’t know. What? You’re one of them, now? Why? Oh. You don’t know that, either._

_What do you know?_

He shook his head again and again.  _Go away. It doesn’t matter, go away,_ he pleaded to no avail.

_Fill up the car, ride on. Or take the bike. Take the bike. They’re not paying attention, take the bike, fly off that cliff. That’s the one you wanted, yes? The only death good enough for you? You had so many chances. Say, what if you survive, and have to crawl across that desert floor for hours, broken and bleeding?_

“Hey!” Dirt grabbed his arm and shook. “You stalled?” The world shifted in and out of focus. Dirt waved something in Stray’s face. A canteen. His canteen.

“You’re gonna need this, you can have it.” Dirt offered generously. “Why’d you leave it anyway? Half-full. You’re not very bright, are ya, Stray.”

“He’s bright enough,” Chopper put in, still sullen and suspicious. “Fill ‘er up, Dirt. Get home before they miss us.”

“Yeah,” Dirt grinned wide, and picked up the canister. 


	8. Haul 'em Home

“He was right, this really is a piece of shit,” Dirt laughed as the engine struggled for speed. The grin hadn’t left his face since he’d touched the wheel. “But I have an engine for her, I have something set aside, she’s going to be so shine.” 

He swerved suddenly, sent the car into a spin and then straightened out again. From his bike, Chopper made agitated gestures and yelled something Stray couldn’t make out.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dirt called out. “I gotta try her out! Doesn’t want me to have any fun.” He braked suddenly- Stray fell against the dashboard- then put the car in reverse and floored it. The engine wailed.

“All right,” Dirt relented and put her back in gear. They continued on more reasonably. Stray sat back in the passenger’s seat, rubbing out a bruise. Chop was far ahead of them, kicking up dust.

“How are we getting the car up the tower?” Stray asked.

“Lift. They’ll let us up. With a car! You don’t know how it works, mate, you got a car, you’re a Driver, and a Driver’s the best thing you can be short of Imperator. I’ll just have to find a Lancer to ride with me. Two Lancers, there’s room enough! You can be on my pit crew. Got black thumbs? I don’t want some mediocre grub messing with my engine. Ahaha!” the Warboy bounced in his seat with unbridled glee.

“So I don’t owe you anymore, huh?” Stray tried a smile.

“Not til the next time you get in trouble,” Dirt was genial. “But I’ll be busy from now on, mate, it’ll take work to make this scrapheap into a real pursuit vehicle. Right now it couldn’t win a lizard race…”

He squinted. Stray followed his gaze, and saw Chopper swerve violently. A second later, Dirt did the same. There was an explosion of roaring engines.

“Buzzards!”

 _It couldn’t win a lizard race._  Stray turned around to see two abominable metal creatures gaining on them, clumps of spikes and rust that looked as if they had no right to be moving at all. And yet.

“Gun!” Dirt yelled. Stray grabbed the weapon and rolled the window down. He looked out, then dove back in, perplexed.

“What are you doing? Shoot!”

“At what?? They’re all spikes!”

“At the wheels, you smeg!”

He leant back out, nearly got his head blown off. Cautiously, he peered again.

“Can’t even see the wheels! Can’t see the driver!”

“You’re fucking useless! Where’s Chop? Get eyes on Chop!”

“There!” He was to their left now, speeding in the opposite direction, one hand on the handlebars and a thunderstick ready in the other. Dirt swerved again to let the biker through, and Chop roared past, planting the lance in the pursuing Buzzard car. He’d hit the mark- the car went into a spin and burst into flames.

“Get around to the Gastown tract!” the bikeboy hollered. Dirt hissed and made the turn.

“One day. Just one day, Vdamnit, one fucking day is all I ask!” he was nearly in tears.

“They’re slowing down,” Stray kept looking back. “They’re turning around!”

Dirt roared in frustration. Stray turned front again and saw the reason for the Buzzard’s retreat. A Citadel party. Two cars, three bikes, just like the one he’d seen on the first day. They were coming down to meet them. He could hear the Warboys whooping and cheering.

Chopper had stopped, ahead, and signaled the same to Dirt. The Warboy killed the engine. He held on to the wheel, chest heaving, teeth grinding.

“One lousy day,” he breathed weakly.

“Get the hell out of that car.” The two Warboys that approached didn’t wait for compliance and simply dragged Dirt and Stray out. Chop stayed on his bike, but he was hunched over and resigned to his fate.

“What are you doing out here, Dirtface? There’s no floors to sweep out here.”

“Look, he brought his Pup.”

“Where’d you get the car?” The Warboy who stepped up looked different in the daylight, but Stray recognised Creak once the goggles came off.

“It’s my car,” he spoke up, which had been entirely the wrong thing to do.

“No, it’s mine!” Dirt hollered.

“Maybe you should fight for it? Tell ya what, first one to make it back to the Citadel wins.” The laughter made it clear the prize wouldn’t be anything pleasant.

“Creak, come on! I found it! I traded for it! It’s mine!” Dirt was nearly on his knees. “I’ve been waiting for this so long!”

“Oh, we’ve all been waiting very long to see you get gored by Buzzards, Dirt, we really have, but it just wasn’t to be today. What a shame.”

“We got one of them! I led him around and Chop lanced him…”

“Leave me out of this!” Chopper demanded, never looking up.

“See, Chopper’s smart. He knows he’s fucked up and he’s not arguing,” Creak slapped the biker on the back. “Now you, maybe you’re just too used to fucking up, Dirt. Maybe you think this is not a big deal.”

“No, Creak, I know, but listen, listen, I had to go get it before the Buzzards…”

“He’s still talking,” Creak exclaimed. “Even your lost Pup is smarter than you!” he pointed to Stray, who promptly pursed his lips and looked at his feet.

“It would have been gone by the time you got there!” Dirt was not backing down.

“Are you a Citadel Driver?” Creak thundered.

“I can…”

“Are you a Driver?”

Stray looked up cautiously. It wasn’t that Dirt was a short man, but Creak seemed to tower above him. The Warboy was fighting not to tremble. He ground his teeth.

“Are you a Driver, Dirt?

“No.”  It took everything out of him.

“Are you cleared for Raids?” still Creak demanded more.

“No.”

“So. I go out on a routine patrol run with my trusted team, and I find poor Chop here, who’s clearly made an unfortunate mistake which he regrets deeply, and an unknown car, with a man behind the wheel who is not a Citadel Driver, and a gunner who is not a Warboy. In short, what we have here is a rogue party! What do we do with this?”

“Bring ‘em down!” some joker hollered from a lancer’s perch. “Bring ‘em down, haul ‘em home!” It became a chant.

“Right,” Creak agreed. His Warboys pounced. Some laughed, some grumbled about wasted time, but they did a quick job of it. The one who took the wheel looked as happy as Dirt had been only moments before. It would be his car, now, Stray guessed. His own Warboy looked like he might burst into tears.

“Should have stayed inside once you got inside,” was the advice he got as a chain was wrapped around his wrists and tied to the back bumper.


	9. The Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (( that one particularly vile Warboy is dedicated to [tatecorrigan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatecorrigan) ))

Dirt refused to say a word.

He wouldn’t even look at Stray, or anyone else who passed by the pit they’d been shoved into. Its purpose besides holding unruly Warboys was unclear, but the stench was dreadful. Dirt didn’t seem to care. He sat back against the wall, staring at a brighter spot of filth on the ground. The humiliation of being taken home a captive and made to run behind the car was entirely too much for the Warboy. Stray suspected there was worse yet to come, but it didn’t seem like anything could hurt Dirt more than losing his prize and his already fragile dignity.

 _You got a car, you’re a Driver_. And that meant a lot round these parts. _They’ll let us up._ Well, he must have been wrong about that.

Stray looked up at the rim of the well. You could break your neck falling down here. Means they were already worthless. A little death’s head popped up and looked back down at him. Then, it threw a rock. Stray shielded himself and took it in the arm- sharp, heavy, it drew blood. There was giggling from above- children. Pups.

He crawled over to Dirt. “So what now? What happens now?” No reply. “What are they going to do to us?”

 _He’s a resource, and we don’t waste resources_. It was, in different words, exactly what he’d heard back home. He was useful. He had to be useful. Everyone helped. Everyone worked together.

Why was he in the same place again?

More laughter and voices up above. Stray tensed up, ready to protect himself, but whoever it was walked past without stopping to look inside.

“I shouldn’t have come up here,” he whispered. Dirt didn’t even blink. “I don’t know why I did that. It’s just the same thing all over again. It’s always the same. Never changes, no matter what I do.”

The Warboy sighed softly. Stray thought he might speak, and perked his ears, but Dirt’s shoulders sank back down and that was that.

The newcomer got up and walked around the pit- it took about five squelching steps one way, five the other. There was a grating underneath the muck, and pitch blackness below. Above, Citadel life went on. Every now and then someone stopped to peek into the pit- Pups, off-duty Warboys, even a wandering Treadmill Rat once. They were right in everyone’s path.

It was mostly insults that flew down, but they got a few more rocks, and one particularly vile Warboy took a long piss into the hole, snickering all the while. Stray decided to remember him.

The pit got dark quicker, and cold, too. Stray could smell burning manure, and see the firelight flicker on the rocks. The heat didn’t reach them at all.

“Are they just going to leave us here?” he asked, shivering. It seemed like they might. It was all murder and mayhem up there, knives and blades and burning guzzoline, people strung up and drained of blood…

What had he been thinking?

“Dirt. Mate. What’s gonna…”

The Warboy turned his back and lay down on the filthy ground. After a while, as the sounds of life above died down and the night watch took over, Stray gave in and did the same.

***

There was a sound. Grinding. Thunder? Sandstorm.

Wait.

A cold blast nearly suffocated him- his mouth and nose and eyes filled with…water. Water! So much of it, he couldn’t even imagine the bounty. But it wasn’t good, it wasn’t pleasant. It hurt.

He gasped, on his knees on the muddy ground, shivering. The dreadful sound stopped and as his ears cleared, he could hear laughter and applause. On the other side of the pit, Dirt sat in the same shock, dripping wet. His clay was washing off, showing pale pink underneath.

Below, the water gurgled and flowed to another reservoir, and above…he could see it now- another grate, covered in droplets glittering in the scarce sunlight that found its way into the cavern. It was fixed to the mouth of a large pipe which ran up higher still and disappeared in the shadows.

 _We drain the excess cola from the plantation,_ Monkey had said. He remembered now.  _Send it back up into the hydroponics. Whatever’s left collects in reservoirs, then it goes down again through to the engine rooms, and…_  he forgot the rest. Something about water too dirty to use. He couldn’t imagine that.

But there was water running all through the citadel, pooling up in tanks and caverns, condensing on the rock walls.

Flushing through pipes.

He heard Dirt wheeze and cough. The Warboy was rubbing water out of his eyes, and looked horrified to see the black come off on his hands. It trickled down his face like dark tears.


	10. Gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( Corby borrowed from [kimbureh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbureh) . Thanks, Wasteland! :) :) ))

“Dirtface!”

Something fell from the rim and splattered mud all over Stray. Not a rock- a parcel. He couldn’t make out the faces in the darkness. Dirt wasn’t moving, so Stray crawled over to unwrap the rags.

“It’s food,” he gasped. His stomach whimpered. He hadn’t filled it since that maggot stew two days before. Something else flew down, narrowly missing his head. A bottle.

“Do you know the ruckus you caused?” Stray tried to recognise the voices to no avail. “Everything’s been turned upside down. Got a whole new rota for watching the entrances. The Imperators are pissed, the alphas are on their toes.”

“The sentries got tunnel duty until, I don’t know, it won’t be tomorrow that they get out! Chop’s not riding anywhere anytime soon. Even Creak got his ears boxed for letting you run loose like that. I don’t know what he’s going to do to you, but it’s gonna hurt.”

“He said he’d kick you out of the pack. Make a bloodbag out of your boy if the Organic says he’s good.”

“Yeah, yeah, but then the Prime got wind of everything and he came down to give what for to our Imperators and he said, he said, what did he say, Corby?”

The shorter warboy straightened up. “You keep order within your ranks or I’ll find someone else to do the job,” he tried to put a boom to his youthful voice.

“Ah he was hopping mad,” the other one laughed, then quietened down when his friend elbowed him. “Yelled all sorts of things and cursed and blasphemed against the Immorta,” the Warboy whispered the last words and got elbowed again.

“Yeah so everyone in your pack’s on half rations.”

“Cuz they didn’t keep an eye on you.”

“And Creak’s not running patrol anymore. Oh, he’s itching about that!”

“Heard him say he should have shot you out there.”

“Or left you to the Buzzards!”

Something spooked them, suddenly; they ran off without another word. Stray carefully carried the parcel of food over to Dirt, set it between them, and dug in. It was a cold mush, beans or tubers of some sort, all clumpy and stale. And delicious.

“He’s going to murder me,” Dirt whimpered. Stray nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. “He’s going to cut me to shreds and I will die disgraced and unwitnessed. And you,” he pointed, “you are going to get thrown off the tower. Back to the Wretched where you belong.”

Stray reached for the water bottle. The cola inside was clean. He drank three large gulps and offered the rest to the Warboy.

“What does it mean when they yell ‘Witness’?” he asked at last.

Dirt looked at him for the first time since the desert. His eyes were wide as hubcaps. “You don’t know anything,” he groaned.

“How would I know? I’ve been in this hole longer than I’ve been out of it.”

“Yes, but...why are you here?” Dirt suddenly demanded, offended. “You believe in the Immorta? The V8?”

“Yes!” Yes? He’d think on it later.

“But you don’t know what Witnessing is. Chop was right about you.”

“Tell me, then. It’s...an honour, isn’t it?”

Dirt nodded, then when Stray nodded back, he shook his head instead. “It's our way into Valhalla. When you die in battle, we call on the Immorta to witness you. Then they judge you glorious, or mediocre.”

“So if I don't die witnessed..”

“You don't feast. Imagine that, you're up there, walking among the gods, getting your deserved reward, and some rustshit Buzzard walks up to the table and plonks his spiky ass down next to you. Hello! Zdrashyvooshy! Drink toast with you, I am your brother! No.” He took a swig from the bottle as if it were rotgut. “Well, I’m gonna be walking the plains eternal with the Buzzards, now. The gates of Valhalla won’t open up for me.”

Stray thought for a moment. He didn’t know anything, Dirt was right about that. But…

“Does it have to be in battle?”

“What?”

“Do you have to die in battle?”

Dirt snorted, offended at the question.

“I mean, I could witness you. If they…”

Dirt turned to him, eyes shining, and spat in his face.

\---

Another night. Stray tried to count them. Shake out his brain. Put things in order. One: the night he climbed up. Two: the first day, when Creak knocked him down and Dirt ran him around ragged. Food and sleep. That had been good, so good. Three- he counted off on his fingers- three, the day they rode out to get the car. And then…

This was their third day in the pit. The boys who’d smuggled in the food and water didn’t show up again, so it was a hungry day. They’d both woken up early ready for the flush, but even plastering themselves against the wall didn’t help. The aqua-cola that came down was grimy, more brown than clear, and stank of rot. Too dirty to use. It was true. You couldn’t drink that, it would kill you.

“Oh shut up,” Stray told his own thoughts. “Just stop.” He shook them off. “Go away.”

Dirt looked at him oddly, but said nothing. Stray paced around, feeling his skin itch from the grime. He ran his hands along the walls, found a grip and tried to pull himself up. A foothold...another foothold…

He lost his grip, flailed for a moment and finally fell back onto the grate. Pain shot through him, and the crash echoed in the pipe underneath.

He got up once the worst of it faded. This time he looked at the wall for a long time before picking his starting place. Slowly...steadily. He’d climbed the tower, in the dark, and he couldn’t do this?

Evidently not. This time he fell from a considerable height, and let out a cry upon impact.

“Don’t be stupid. It’s too slippery,” underneath the mocking voice Dirt sounded concerned. Stray could only cough in response. “You break something?”

“Nnnngh.”

“Huh?”

“Bimmhhom,” he mumbled. And tore skin in a few places, and would have a bruise like a tyre track on his backside. The brand decided to start hurting again, too, just to keep the other aches company.

“Stupid Pup,” Dirt huffed.

“Aowon…” Stray winced. He had to wait for his tongue to stop throbbing before he could speak. “I don’t want to just sit here and wait to see if they let us out.”

Dirt sat back against the slimy rock. “You know, if you hadn’t come up yourself, they’d have hunted you down and dragged you back just the same. And you’d be up in the blood shed now.”

Stray wondered if being down here in the filth was any better, and decided that it could be. He didn’t want to die in a pit, but he didn’t want to die in a cage, either. He’d seen them, on the first day, when they passed by the blood shed. Hanging there. Being drained to feed the half-lives.

He sat up and examined his wounds.

“What about the Warboys there? The ones in the shed? Do they go... unwitnessed?” he asked. Dirt gave him a dark glance, but he wasn’t looking for a fight this time.

“We witness them, too,” he sighed. “All of them. Don't know if the Immorta hear us, but we call anyway. It’s not forbidden.”

“And the bloodbags?”

“Not them. Valhalla's not for everyone. Warriors, Stray. Warriors.”

“So where do they go? And them, below?”

“Don't know. Somewhere else. Somewhere better than here, maybe. They got their own gods. But I belong to V8, and if I can’t go to Valhalla…” he buried his face in his hands, smearing the rest of the paint.

“You go somewhere else?”

“No!” he shouted. “No, I don’t! I just...this is not how I’m supposed to die.”

“Well you ain’t dead yet,” Stray pointed out. “Nowhere close.”

He hadn’t expected the effect this had on the Warboy. Dirt’s eyes lit up. He lost the hunch and looked up.

“Yeah,” he said in quite a different tone. “Yeah. Ain’t dead yet.” He leapt up so suddenly, he sprayed Stray with mud. “I ain’t dead yet!” the Warboy hollered up to the mouth of the well. Someone yelled something back, someone else laughed. No one looked down.


	11. Last Chance

On the fourth day, a rope ladder dropped suddenly. They clambered up, stiff-limbed, reeking, not a trace of the clay left on them. Creak was waiting for them at the top, wearing a face that promised pain. Dirt bowed his head at once and lifted his hands up in salute, which Stray hurried to copy. They froze this way, waiting for the verdict.

“Here’s how it’s going to be,” Creak said calmly. Too calmly. “I would like nothing better than to strap you both to the bottom of the lift and leave you there until the next time we bring the War Rig down.” They could almost hear the squelch of flesh and crushing of bones in his voice. “But I teach my pack not to be wasteful. And even shit can be used as fuel,” he growled into Dirt’s ear. The Warboy swallowed hard.

He stepped back. “You’re some sort of disease, Dirt. Making everyone sick. The boys standing guard, hand-picked and trustworthy, why did they listen to you? And Chopper, Chopper is a smart boy, a fantastic biker. Too bad about that, he’s grounded in the shop, won’t see another bike unless he builds one from scraps. You’re making my pack weak, Dirt. You brought in…this…” the gesture he made at Stray was non-descript, but obviously full of disgust.

“So here is how it’s going to be,” he resumed, pacing around them. “You are going to stay out of my sight. I’m taking you off the rota for war training, you’re on scrub duty until I say otherwise, so keep out of everyone’s way. You are also going to make sure that sorry creature,” he pointed at Stray again “is trained and becomes useful, and you are going to do it soon if you want to continue to call yourself a Warboy of the Citadel.”

Stray’s arms were beginning to hurt, and his neck ached from bowing. He wished he could look up and see Creak’s face. The Alpha silently stared at them for what seemed like an eternity.

“This is your last chance, Dirt. Your very last chance. No more pardons, no more pleading, your luck has run out. Prove to me that you’re good for something. Understood?”

“Yes, Creak.”

“Sixty days from now, I will see you both at the trials. Both of you, do you understand, Dirt?”

“Yes, Creak.”

“Immorta help you if you fail, Warboy.”

Another eternity.

“You’re dismissed,” Creak released them at last.  “Go put some paint on, you look disgusting.”

 

“Trials?” Stray had to trot to keep up with Dirt who was terribly eager to get out of Creak’s sight. His side still hurt from falling off the wall. “What trials?”

“War trials. I shouldn’t have to do all that again. I’m a Warboy, I’ve run the gauntlet!” he fumed. “It’s for rookies. Like you. And how am I supposed to get you ready for it if I’m not allowed in battle training? Creak’s out of his mind.” He looked over his shoulder as he said it.

“What sort of trials? Fighting?”

Dirt stopped. “Look. There’s things every Warboy’s gotta know how to do. Fighting’s just one of them. You gotta…ugh, Pups learn this.” He looked at Stray with immeasurable frustration. “Lancing,” he decided. “You’re gonna focus on lancing. I’m a Lancer, myself.”

He explained as they walked on, all about Lancers and Drivers, pursuit vehicles, scavenger raids, war parties, and his eyes glowed like embers. His hands danced, staging great chases and victories, glorious, Witnessed deaths.

“I’ve never seen anything so shine,” he sighed, having just described the death of the Pack’s previous Alpha, a Warboy called Ruckus.

“You were out there?”

“Yeah! I was Lancing off the pick-up, and I saw it all.” He fell silent for a moment, lost in that fine memory until it turned sour. ”Haven’t been out since, though,” he grumbled.

The air was getting hotter and hotter. “Where are we going?” Stray wondered. He made note of the pipes running along the walls.

“Gotta clean up first, we stink worse than the Wretched.” At last they came to a passage half-drowned in water. Stray followed Dirt as the Warboy tugged off his boots and trousers and slid in. They came out sputtering, all bruises and wounds now clean and visible. Still naked, they grabbed their clothes and moved on, through a few quick corridors toward a battered metal doorway.

Stray closed his eyes. The light blinded him and the desert air was sharp; they were suddenly outside. But not below- it was a ledge, a large, flat shelf of rock jutting out of the Tower, covered in sand.

Dirt dropped his boots and rolled out his trousers. He pulled a small parcel out of the largest pocket and set it aside before rubbing and dragging the cloth around in the sand. By the time he was done getting the worst of the stench out, he was quite dry.

Dressed again, he stood out on the ledge and stared at the Citadel towers. When Stray walked up, Dirt took a look at his neck.

“Gotta get the Organic to check on that,” he said, poking at the brand. “Ain’t healing too well on your fresh meat.”

Stray hissed and pulled away. It did hurt. He looked back at Dirt and blinked.

“You still got muck there,’ he pointed to his cheek, but the Warboy grimaced.

“Na, that’s my skin. That’s why they call me Dirt. Dirtface.” It was a brownish patch, seeping out like a grease stain on white cloth. Stray hadn’t noticed it at all under the warpaint.

“Stray,” there was an unusual note in Dirt’s voice. Something…kind. “Here. Look.” He handed him the parcel he’d pulled out earlier. It was still damp. “Don’t tell anyone. I was gonna give it up like the rules say, but I don’t think I wanna anymore.”

It was the wordburger. Stray took it gently and peeled the pages apart. The rotting water in the pit had done its damage, but most of the book could still be saved.

“You can read all that, huh.” Dirt looked over his shoulder.

“Mhm. But you can read?”

“I know all the letters,” the Warboy declared proudly, though he was clearly aware putting those letters together was a higher skill.

“What does that say?” he pointed to a passage that had been circled in pencil by someone unknown hand, decades ago.

 _“There are those who stay at home and those who go away, and it has always been so. Everyone can choose for himself, but he must choose while there is still time and never change his mind.”_  Stray read carefully, hoping to make no errors.

“Never change his mind,” Dirt repeated. He did not reveal what thoughts the passage gave him, but he nodded and smiled to himself as if he thoroughly agreed.


	12. Back to Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corby belongs to Kimbureh. :) Thanks!

“Ooooooh!” Every single Pup playing in the clay cavern turned to boo them as they walked in, but it took one growl from Dirt to make them scamper.

“Little maggots got no respect,” he ranted loudly. “Little maggots think they’re chrome, already awaited in Valhalla. They think no one’s gonna tell their big brothers that they’re shirking duties! You! Pebble! I saw you! C’mere!”

The boy dragged his feet. “Don’t hafta listen to you,” his defiance was cautious. “You got demoted.”

“I got…I’ll show you worse than demoted if you don’t do as I say. Who told you that?”

“Heard the boys talking. And I saw you in the mediocre pit!” the Pup sang out and stepped back just in case.

“Yeah, well, I’m out here now, so you watch it!”

“You don’t have any paint on! You look like a wretched smeg!”

Dirt lunged forward. It was all Stray could do to hold him back.

“He’s just a kid! Dirt!”

“I’m a Warpup!” the child hollered. Stray pushed Dirt away and squared off.

“And he’s a Warboy! So you give him some respect!” he yelled.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. The child hissed, spat at his feet and ran away. Behind him, Dirt was laughing weakly.

“Oh…oh Stray. Yeah. Fight the Pups for me, rookie. You know they’d beat you before you could say ‘Aqua-cola’? Little fuckers…can’t even get respect from them. That’s where I am. Pass me that bucket.”

He poured out the dry clay into a basin and mixed it with water. They sat down and started painting, carefully covering up bruises and scrapes with the white. Half-done, Dirt got up and worked on Stray’s back and head, then requested the same. For the final touch, he dipped his fingers into a pot of black grease and rounded off his eyes. He stared at Stray a moment, then put the black away.

“Come on. Got chores to catch up on. Lots of them.”

It had been a long day. Stray had seen a lot more of the Citadel, but he did not think he could remember it all. Dirt could no longer pawn his work off on him- there was enough to keep them both up to their elbows in it, and no end in sight. But all hard days had to end, and when they finally headed back to their warren, Stray could think of nothing but sleep.

He stepped inside and stopped. Dirt stood in the doorway; he was looking up at the ledge- his ledge- which was now filled with scrap, rags, and someone’s mismatched boots.

“You rustfuckers,” he growled. “That how it is? That’s how you treat me? When’s the last time any of you brought back a car, huh?”

“Dirt,” a larger Warboy appeared behind them and gently pushed Stray out of his path. “People are trying to sleep,” he breathed down Dirt’s neck. “You wanna do some shouting, that’s fine, there’s a nice pit with a proper echo in it that I can take you to. Hm? Or maybe you want to get some sleep, too?”

He nodded towards the spot on the floor where Stray had rested that first night. Miraculously, the blanket was still there. To his credit, Dirt tried to stare the man down for a few seconds.

“Or you could go sleep in your car,” the Warboy suggested, to general mirth.

“No, I’m gonna sleep in my bunk!” Dirt charged and bounced off of the Warboy so hard that he landed in the designated corner.

“Why you gotta be such shits to me?” he wailed.

“Because your fooling around got all of us in trouble, jackass!”

“We’re sick of you. All you do is complain and you can’t even do your job right. I like your stray Pup better, at least he doesn’t talk back.”

“All right, eh.” Someone was merciful. “He got it, he’s mediocre. Don’t rub it in.” It was a stocky Warboy, dark under the paint, with two sharp scars across the bridge of his nose. He leaned out of his bunk. “I’m going to get some lancing practice in early tomorrow morning. You two maggots coming with?”

Dirt ground his teeth to keep relief and gratitude from showing.

“Then get some sleep. And I mean everybody.”

The warren settled down. Someone snuffed out the lamp; in the pitch darkness, Stray and Dirt lay back to back, uncomfortably sharing the blanket.

In the morning the merciful Lancer woke them up with a prod as he stepped out the door. Dirt scrambled to catch up and dragged Stray along, a groggy mess.

The Lancer strode into the practice hall, and without pause, pulled a thunderstick out of the rack and threw it at the target. It hit the mark.

“He always does that, right out the door,” Dirt whispered. “Show-off, right?” He stepped away and began to roll his shoulders, warming up. Stray rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Cuz there ain’t no time for it in battle!” the Lancer thundered. His war-cry, in a way. Nevertheless he began his own warm-up routine.

“No time for what?” Stray wondered stupidly.

“No time for nothing! Enemy’s not gonna wait for you to get ready. You gotta be ready! Wake up ready!” To make his point he threw a lance right past Stray’s head. Stray shuddered, Dirt laughed, and the Lancer rolled his eyes.

“Bullseye. That’s what they call me. Guess why,” he threw another lance, this time past Dirt.

“Hey! I know your damn name!” the Warboy shouted back and stepped further away from Stray with a grimace. “He’s the one who needs teaching.”

“You’re both mediocre,” the reply came with a throw- but no lance. Bullseye laughed as Dirt flinched away from empty air and twirled the stick in his hand. “Gotcha. Wanna have a bit of fun or what?”

The fun, as it turned out, was all for Bullseye, who decided the first lesson should be dodging. The lances he thrust were dull but they still hurt worth a damn when they grazed. Stray kept busy avoiding bruises, but Dirt dropped to the floor suddenly and rolled away to the side.

He returned armed, and even got a swing at Bullseye. Their thundersticks locked, which gave Stray a moment to breathe and find his own weapon. He gripped it tight.

Too tight. One strike from Bullseye’s stick sent him flying into an uncoordinated heap.

“Should’ve let your wrists move. Bent away from it. Look.” He showed him, again and again.

“Mediocre,” Bullseye finally decreed. “You’ll never be a Lancer,” he added, but this time his grin wasn’t quite as shit-eating, and Stray had a feeling he meant the opposite.

The Lancer left them to clean up. “So they’re not all spiteful bastards, are they,” Stray winced as he tried to stretch a kink out of his back.

“Hey! Watch your mouth, that’s my pack you’re talking about,” Dirt bristled. “Your pack, too,” he reflected. He rolled the thought around his head for a longer while.

“Bullseye’s all right,” he said at last. “Knew I could count on him to help.”

“He’s gonna make bets,” a familiar voice said, from high up. The Warboy who dropped down from a gap in the rock was Corby, the same gossip who’d thrown down a bottle.  “Nice to see you out of the mediocre pit,” he gave Stray a small punch in the arm.

“Bets?” Hard to tell if Dirt’s outrage was real or not. “He better not bet against me.”

“Against the both of you. Contest is still on, they’re all gonna try and claim the stray. Best they can do for fun. Creak can’t toss you out, Imperator said so.”

“How do you know all of what the Imperator says to Creak?”

“I’m a greenthumb. I hear things. Say, you’d do good with us, you’re a climber.”

“Ah, no, Corby, don’t you dare,” Dirt growled. “He’s gonna be a Lancer.”

“ _You’re_ not even a Lancer!”

“I’m a Lancer! I’m just not in active duty!”

“So what’s the difference? And you can be a Lancer and a greenthumb. I am.”

“Well he’s not in your Pack, so that’s that. And when’s the last time you lanced, huh?”

Corby rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Come up the hills with me sometime, Stray. I’ll show you how this place works. It’s so big, you have no idea.”

“He won’t show you anything, the smeggin’ airhead,” Dirt sneered. “He’s just talked the ears off every other Warboy in his pack already. You stay here.”

Corby stuck his tongue out. “See if I help you again. Gotta go, I got Pup duty.”

 

 


	13. How to get to Valhalla

“Pups.” A few more had run past them as they walked, whooping and making the maddest faces.

“What about ‘em?”

“You all been here since you were Pups?”

“Yeah.” Dirt thought about it for a moment. “Well, no. You mean did anyone come up like you? With days on them? There’s a few. Shank from the Third. There’s one boy in the workshops, can’t remember his name, he’s on the Doof Wagon crew.”

“The what?”

“Oh, brother, you haven’t seen a war raid. Ha! You’ll lose your mind.” The Warboy drummed out a beat on a nearby pipe, then realised he’d been banned from raids and sombered. “We don’t talk about before. Don’t go asking.”

“Why not?”

The Warboy stopped and turned. “All right. You wanna tell me? Where are you from? What did you do there? What did they call you? Hm? Didn’t think so.” He turned back and continued walking. “Doesn’t matter anyway, none of it. Doesn’t matter where I was born, Joe raised me up and this is how I get to Valhalla.”

Stray nodded, feeling judged. “It’s all I want.” He ducked to avoid the slap.

“Yeah, you knew that was coming, cuz you know you’re full of lies. You don’t understand Valhalla. Not yet. Here.” They were in the blood shed again. The warboy pointed up to the cages, as if to say “there but for my mercy”. They moved on. The light seeping in from above had many obstacles on its way before, at the end of that long corridor, it could wash over the altar.

“V8,” the Warboy whispered, and nudged the Stray. They both folded their hands. “This is where every man who rode through to Valhalla began. Their stories are here. Their deeds honour V8. If they come home, they return their wheels to the altar to wait for another day when the gates will open.” He gave Stray a glare. “The gates to Valhalla, that is. You know what’s behind them?”

Headshake. No.

“Miles and miles of highway, that’s a road poured out black and so smooth, you can ride faster than the storm. And it never ends. There’s a stretch of it North of the Citadel, if you’re lucky you might get to see it someday.”

“Where did it come from?” Stray risked a question.

“Left behind by the Immorta after the Wars. It’s too far from Valhalla now, and it melts in the sun. Valhalla’s much colder than here, you know. Full of green like the towertops, and there’s beasts to hunt, too.”

“Beasts?” Like the ones in the books he’d read, perhaps. Large, hairy, horned and dangerous, and they could feed a whole settlement when brought down.

“Yeah! Like buzzards, only flesh instead of metal. Like those crows at the edge of the territory, where the stench is, only bigger so they’re worth the bullet. That highway, it used to lead right to Valhalla before the Wars destroyed it. The Immorta brought almost all of the beasts across with them.”

“And there’s no way to get there now?”

“Nnnh. Only by a chrome death. Maybe someday if we prove worthy the Immorta will come back and repair the highway. We send a party out there every full moon. The sands take it sometimes and we have to dig to uncover it again. Some boys nick a bit of tar off the edge, bring it back,” he added, “but that’s bad luck, asking for trouble.”

“How far does it go?”

“Fifty miles, maybe. Maybe twenty you can ride, the rest is buried and cracked. Right at the far end they say if you’re chrome enough, if you’re worthy, you can sometimes see the bridge to Valhalla.”

“You ever seen it?”

The Warboy ground his teeth. “No.” Suddenly unnerved, he yanked Stray’s folded hands, pulling and prodding until he was satisfied with the shape of the V8 salute. “Like this. You’re gonna have to learn all the rites. Come here.”

They moved around the altar. “That’s Creak’s wheel,” Dirt pointed out a weave of coloured wire and bones. “Don’t touch! Don’t even look at it too long.”

“Corby said he wasn’t going on patrol anymore, remember?”

“Yeah, and he must be furious. Serious demerit, get taken off patrol, if you get nothing shinier in its place. Boys are gonna be bored, that’s bad news for us.”

“Why didn’t you go on patrols?”

Dirt’s eyes flashed. He dragged the newcomer away from the altar, all the way out into the Blood Shed. This wasn’t a story to offer to V8.

Stray looked up uneasily at the bloodbags.

“I used to go,” Dirt ground his teeth. “Rear port side of the pick-up, that was my spot,” Dirt pretended to aim a lance at one of the cages. “We’d go and do a round, catch any strays, pick up scrap. First morning watch, that was us. And I….I got in over my head one time. Got unlucky, you know. Grabbed a thunderstick that wasn’t wrapped right. Wasn’t my fault, either! One of the powder monkeys screwed it up. But I had to take the blame.”

A bloodbag groaned, above, and one of the prostrate Warboys reached out to grasp at Stray’s trousers. His fingers were too weak to lock on.

“I’ll get back out there, don’t you worry. See, I’m a Lancer,” Dirt tapped on the scar burned into his shoulder. Two crossed thundersticks. “And this one’s for our pack. You need that,” he observed, now staring at Stray thoughtfully. Another skull, but this time with markings etched around it. Dirt wore it on his forearm, and poked Stray in the same spot.

“What about those?” Stray pointed out a line of gashes.

“That’s for the Witnessed. Ruckus, here, and this is Fiver, Drezine, Crow.” Each name was marked with a small combined V8. “I witnessed Ruckus and Fiver. And Crow was a friend.”

“And the fourth one?”

“Drezine...he died soft. I still remember.”

“He was your friend?”

“I witnessed him,” Dirt nodded in reply. “Organics didn’t even hook him up anymore. Blood was short that season, he was too far gone. Shame I didn’t find you back then.”

Stray felt ill. He grabbed Dirt’s shoulder and spun him round. “You say that to my face?”

The Warboy pushed him off with a sneer. “You think I’d put a feral ahead of my brother?” He pointed up to the cages, again. “You need to learn how things work around here, Pup. You gotta be useful. Ain’t their fault they’re up there, just their bad luck. Yours was good. Don’t fuck up your chance. Don’t fuck up mine,” he waved the finger in Stray’s face. “We got sixty days. That ain’t much. Gonna have to train you hard.”

“For a lancer?”

“Yeah. For a lancer.” Dirt pretended to throw one, smirking. 


	14. Payback

It turned out Dirt had competition. All of a sudden, there was no shortage of teachers for Stray. The Warboys had decided to make a game out of finding a use for him- someone was taking bets, just as Corby had cheerfully reported, but he would not give them the odds or the rules of the game. It was all to earn Creak’s favour, perhaps, show their resourcefulness, or maybe the lull between raids had been too long, and they were anxious for entertainment.

A clueless newcomer provided plenty. Stray found himself pulled from task to task all day, learning new names and getting thoroughly confused about everything. It sure kept his mind from wandering.

It hurt, too, in numerous ways. There was no safe job for a Warboy. Bruises piled up like trophies from the training rooms and workshops. One day, he found himself on galley duty, and came away with a blistering scald on his hand. He couldn’t hold the lance right that afternoon- no one cared. The war wouldn’t stop to wait until your wounds healed. Of course not.

“And you don’t need to see the Organic for that, either,” he found out. Didn’t need the Organic for much, it seemed- nearly all of the Warboys kept scrap medkits in their pockets. Stray lived off their charity for now.

“That’ll heal clean,” Dirt made a disappointed comment on a stinging cut across Stray’s arm. He’d bumped into a corner; a stupid wound, not worthy of a scar, which was the awkward way Dirt consoled him.  They were dishing out the evening rations, their last chore for the day. “What you want is scars from war, from the fight.” He showed off the burn on his left side. “Nearly went out chrome with that one, someone even yelled Witness. Wasn’t my time!”

“You sure that wasn’t just the hot soup you spilled all over your Imperator, Dirtface? Remember that?” a boy set the food line laughing.

“I’ll give you something to remember!” Dirt raged, but his face fell at once as he saw the line move. “Shit,” he whispered, and vanished like a puff of steam. Before Stray could wonder where he’d gone, a large and angry Warboy pushed through the crowd, followed by a shorter, but no less menacing friend. To his dismay, Stray found himself blocked in- and suddenly, the queue wrapped around him like a circle of spectators. This was bad.

“Dirt thinks he can hide somewhere,” the larger man snickered mirthlessly. “We’ll pull him out of whatever hole he crawls into. Hello,” he was suddenly congenial. “Having a good day?”

There was nothing good about that tone.

“My friend asked you a question,” the other Warboy prompted.

“S’alright…?”

“All right, he says. And where did you come from, hm? I don’t remember you.”

Stray didn’t remember either of them. Sure, there were so many death’s heads in this tower, he couldn’t have kept track of every single one, but these two were memorable. They smelled of sweat, and blood.

“I…I’m…new. ”

“And how long have you been among us, Pup?”

Stray twitched, but let the insult go. “Might be a week, I reckon. Maybe.”

“Really! Say, aren’t you that brave lad who scaled the tower and got in through a crack?”

“…right.”

“Where was that, now? Hm? Level one? The Eastern lookout? Down there? Well, aren’t you clever. Isn’t he clever?”

“So clever.”

“Uh. Are you…do you want your share?” Stray pointed to the pot of mush without much hope.

The Warboy struck suddenly, with an angry grunt. The ladle flew out of Stray’s hand. Someone shouted, someone else cheered. The other one leapt in to grab Stray from behind; there was nothing he could do now but count the blows. He couldn’t catch a breath to beg them to stop. An eternity later he was allowed to collapse and stare at the larger Warboy’s boots. Mismatched, leather, one with a thicker sole. He’d sure seen a lot of footwear since that climb.

“Six days in the hole, and a demotion” the Warboy crouched and leaned in to whisper sweetly. “I just thought I’d say thank you for that. Just thought we should make our acquaintance, finally. Meet the little prick who snuck past us. Tell Dirt he’s not getting away without a hiding, I got my back stripped because of his loose tongue and I’m paying it forward.” In parting, he flicked his fingers right between Stray’s eyes- somehow, that hurt the most.

“So, we gonna get our grub or what?” a Warboy stood over him and prodded with his boot. The line was forming again, impatient.


	15. The Blood Shed

“So that was Struts and his bestie, Rake. They had guard duty on your lookout that night.” Dirt explained what Stray had already guessed. There was, to his credit, a hint of guilt in his tone, but he hadn’t emerged from his hiding place until Stray had been declared unfit to work and dragged to the Blood Shed.

“My lookout,” Stray mumbled with some pride through his cracked and swollen lips.

“Well, no one else ever climbed up that way,” Dirt let him have the moment. He wrung the rag and handed it back so Stray could dab at the blood caked over his eyebrows. “You’re a mess. He’s gonna want to keep you here some days.”

“Mfine.”

“You got broken ribs, for sure.”

“Mfine.”

“Take the rest, stupid,” Dirt growled low.

“No time to rest. Trials,” Stray couldn’t believe himself. But there was the Organic himself, stinking of rot, coming to paw at him. He yelled when the man stuck a finger between his ribs.

“Bruised all right,” he drawled, padding and prodding, licking his lips as if he meant to take a taste as well. “That’s gonna hurt a while. Two day lie-down for you, then back to work. Lancer?”

“Yeah,” Dirt answered for him. “Training to be.”

“No training. A week at least. Put him in the shop, scrub or grub. Nothing too trying. He can stay here a while, Redthumb duties, that’ll do you, ain’t much of a struggle unless a bloodbag’s gone feral. Doctor’s orders,” he added with a dreadful grin and walked off, chuckling.

“Get me out of here,” Stray groaned. Dirt could only shrug.

“Look at you,” he laughed suddenly. “Got one eye blackened already. You look like half a proper Warboy now.”

“I’m so happy. Dirt, I can’t stay here.”

But he had to. The Redthumbs only seemed half-asleep; they took their duties seriously. Organic’s word was law. Even the Pups, here, were quiet. Everything was quiet.

Slowly, sounds started to seep through the silence. Whispers from the altar down the hall. Conversations- rarely- when a Warboy came to talk to his ailing brother. The shuffling of Redthumbs and Pups. The odd noises of sick bodies. Creaking chains, swinging cages, and…the bloodbags. Shifting in their uneasy sleep. Whimpering. Groaning. Thinking. You could almost hear that, hear their thoughts, smell their despair.  _When will it end?_

“Can’t help you,” he muttered. “Leave me alone. Go away.” Closing his eyes felt worse than watching the cages hang above. There were six. Two were being drained. The Redthumbs pulled the third one out, limp as a rag. Dead? No. Just weak. Could be used again, with some rest. Just like him.

_Don’t you dare. Don’t you ever think you’ve got it as bad as those poor souls. You’re strong and healthy, you’ve got shelter and food enough to survive. Make use of it._

It hurts.

_What hurts?_

Everything.

_Lies. Words for a book, not for the Wasteland. Words for selfish, unworthy people. What hurts?_

Everything. Everything on the outside. He ran a finger along the bruise, pressed down. Good sun, it hurt.

On the outside.

_On the inside._

No, on the outside.

_What about the inside?_

There’s nothing on the inside.

He turned over, now relishing the throbbing, pleased with the ache. If it hurts on the outside, that’s the only place it hurts.

“Shut up,” he mumbled cruelly at the bloodbags, and fell into a ragged sleep. In the morning, he took the first chance and fled, limping, to the workshops. Doctor’s orders be damned.


	16. Scrap

“Thought you’d be parked for days,” the head Blackthumb was surprised to see him. Hard to tell whether there was any disappointment in there, too. “You good to work, sure?”

“I’m good.” He was. Everything hurt. “Where do you want me?”

The Warboy looked skeptical. Finally, he waved toward the junkpile. “Scrap sorting, best go easy on you today.” He shook his head and muttered something as Stray left.

“I got trash duty with you,” he told the Warboy digging around. Shocker. One of Dirt’s pack- his pack.

“Tsh. You don’t listen. It’s like Creak said,” Shocker rummaged in a pile of scrap, “ain’t trash as long as it’s useful. See this?” he waved around a non-descript metal shard.

Stray shrugged. Easier to listen than think. “Scrap.”

“Scrap. Nah. This will make a shine tireguard. Poke a nice hole in anyone that gets too close, too. This?”

“Uh…”

“Grip for your lancer. Grip for your perch,” he reflected,” if you ever do make lancer, keep an eye out for this kind of thing,” he swung it around like a weapon, then cast it aside and picked another piece. “This? Actually… I don’t even know but I’m sure it’ll fit somewhere. You will, too.”

That was kind, Stray supposed, if he’d understood it right. “There’s so much to do,” he made small talk.

“Yeah!” the Warboy looked surprised. “Yeah? It’s never done. Finish up, you start over again. And there’s always more scrap, and not enough spare parts. But that’s why the good V8 invented welding.”

“And tape.” Stray pulled a little black roll out of his pocket- a treasure Dirt’s pilfering fingers had missed, and the rotten pit hadn’t ruined.

“Get out!” Shocker grabbed it. “That’s for the shop, now,” he warned.

“I know. More use for it here.”

“Listen…” the Warboy looked thoughtful. “Listen, you’re fresh meat, you gotta be careful, keep your head down, stay low.”

“I know.” Hadn’t he been doing that? It wasn’t even like him. Staying low. No, it wasn’t like him at all not to push back, talk back. Eat dirt when it got thrown in his face. He used to care.

And this, this was no surrender. It was a trick. The Blackthumb ate it up. Sure, Stray didn’t know what he’d get from it, but the Warboy looked at him differently now. He was suddenly interesting.

“I know,” he repeated. “Stay low.”

“Yeah,” the shop Boy agreed, ”but not so low that you get trampled. Get what I mean? You’re stuck with Dirt, now that’s unfortunate, but you have to stand up for yourself.”

“I’m not letting anyone trample me.”

“Sure about that? I just took your tape. This stuff’s worth a week of rations. There’s more than one way to be mediocre, Pup.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Or what? Pup.”

Stray waited a split second, then pounced and grabbed the Blackthumb from behind. He lost his advantage at once- pretending he wasn’t still aching from the beating didn’t stifle the pain. A brief struggle, clattering tools, and he was on the ground with the Warboy sitting on his bruised chest. He cried out in pain. Mistake?

“Yeah. That’s better,” Shocker breathed hard, but released him at once and helped him to his feet. Stray reeled and had to sit down. No, he’d done good.

“Kamikrazy.” So good. “Wanna go back to the Shed?”

“Nnn. No.”

“Hm. Well, just don’t listen to Dirt too much,” the Warboy advised. “Respect those who outrank you. That’ll be easy, it’s everyone. But,” he leaned in, “don’t ever let anyone call you a Pup, Pup.”

Easier said than done. The insult had stuck. Worse- he wasn’t just a Pup, he was ‘Dirt’s Pup’.  And Dirt, it couldn’t be denied, was the most mediocre Warboy in the tower. 

Stray wasn’t even sure why. His guide was neither particularly weak nor incompetent. He could hold his own in a fight, his lances hit target more often than not, yet somehow he’d become the butt of all jokes and unwelcome in too many circles. Even his own pack accepted him only grudgingly. He hadn’t been able to win back his bunk, and the worst chores were left for him to handle. Stray had no choice but to share in his misery. He limped behind, bruises healing slowly.

And he listened. It really was easier than thinking.


	17. Itchin'

Some days later, when Stray could finally stretch without whimpering, he decided to make the best of the worst- and snuck a second blanket from another warren to begin with. He was as calm as the desert night, creeping through the unfamiliar corridors, and only when he’d delivered the spoils to his bunk and ran back to duties did his heart set into a rattling that lasted the rest of the day.

There was a brawl over it in the canteen that evening, and flying accusations- fists, too- but his pack did not give him up. No one tried to take the blanket.This was good.

That same night, feeling bold, he demanded Dirt return one of his folding knives.

“You don’t need both of them, and they’re mine.”

“Fall on your head, Pup?”

_Don’t let anyone call you that._

He surprised the Warboy, and this time won the fight despite the lingering pain. Perhaps Dirt was mediocre after all. With a knee pressed cruelly into the Warboy’s back, Stray twisted his arm and reached into pocket after pocket. The knife was a familiar shape in his palm.

“Don’t call me a Pup,” he threw as he let him go. It wouldn’t work, but he had to demand it.

“You mind yourself. You ever take something from one of the Pack,” Dirt huffed as he staggered away from him, embarrassed, “we’ll hang you by your belt-loops and cut you into strips.”

Stray held up the knife.  _Don’t let them trample you_. “This,” he said, “is mine. I don’t steal from the Pack.”

“Steal from others though, do ya,” Dirt hazarded, suddenly cheerfully curious. “Stole that car, maybe.”

Stray looked at him sharply. He was fishing. But…

“Yeah. Wasn’t mine. Ain’t mine anymore. What goes around comes around, you know.”

“Anything goes around in our territory gets taken by Warboys!” Dirt roared as if all victories were his. He’d been beaten, but he didn’t care. It made Stray want to take him down again.

“And we don’t waste a scrap,” Dirt went on, once again his ally. “Hey, lancing practice early tomorrow. Before chores. You can tackle me, you can throw again. I’ll teach you how to pack and tie them, too. We got...treadmills and sorting for most of the day, ugh.”

“Anywhere but the Shed,” Stray grumbled. That one night in the Organic’s lair had been enough. The low whining of one of the bloodbags still rang in his ears.

“Ha, well tough maggots, it's on the rota for everyone when we're not doing war.”

“When will we do war?”

“You itchin’?”

“Yeah!” He was itching all right. The memory of that convoy riding back was all but faded, the sound of their roaring voices barely echoed. He'd even found some of them in the crowd inside the Citadel, but had not dared approach. He remembered the words, though, the names of the men witnessed. Charger and Strike. Three miles West of Checkpoint Tche. He knew now that was the very edge of Buzzard territory, and had once been a place of truce. Now, Warboys and Buzzards taunted each other along the borderline. He wanted to be out there, riding on top of a car with a packed thunderstick in his hand, feel the rush of being proper kamikrazy. He wouldn't run out of gas there.

Dirt laughed. “Pups don't go to war.” He didn't like his own joke, though. “We need to get you some grease, you're embarrassing, all white like that.”

“Yes!” Stray's heart leapt. “I can fight.”

This time Dirt laughed heartily. “You could fight Corpus, maybe,” he lowered his voice for the blasphemy. “This is the thing, see...pups get their black when they prove themselves in the trials. Or if they're just that shine, if they impress. You're no pup, so it’s tricky.”

“You tell me about those trials. I wanna get out there, Dirt. I wanna fight. Die shiny and chrome,” the words were still foreign in his mouth, but they tasted good. Like water from a cool canteen- like blood.

“You’d die from sunstroke. You’d trip over your own feet. Lance yourself in the gut. Choke on the exhaust.”

Stray was silent for a while- then something sparked.  _Why are you so meek?_

_Afraid to do it, are you?_

_Afraid to live, afraid to die. Parasite._

“Well, with your mediocre-shit training!” he spat back suddenly. “I’d learn more from the Pups. The boys are still betting, and I heard Corby say the odds were stacked high as the sky against you. ”

They’d been on their way down the warren’s painted corridor, but Dirt spun around.

“Oh yeah? That what they say? Let’s go. Right now. Fuck tomorrow, we’re gonna throw tonight. What, you too tired?”

He was. He went anyway, heart racing again and some new, bizarre excitement filling his insides.


	18. We're not to blame

Dirt was right. There was no avoiding the Blood Shed. Stray even tried to bargain with another boy, spend rations trading shifts. No luck. Even Dirt betrayed him when the workshop called for hands, and he was left alone among the ghostly Redthumbs, the ailing Warboys, and the bloodbags above.

And one of them spoke.

“Help me…”

“No. Sorry.” Reflex. He replied at once, and his stomach turned in shock.  _You help people when they ask. You help people survive. You bring them home and make us stronger._

“Please…”

“No.” Maybe he was only asking for water? For a rest. Won’t even give him that, will you?

The prisoner grunted, mumbling something. An accusation? No, it was once again a weak: “Please.”

“You run, they’re just gonna string someone else up there,” Stray replied pragmatically, in a voice he did not recognise, with words he could not believe were made inside of him. “I can’t even help you get out, where you gonna go?”, he reasoned.

The bloodbag moaned. Stray hadn’t expected it to talk. He hadn’t expected to think of a human being as ‘it’, either.

“You’re too weak. Wouldn’t make it out the shed,” he added, and continued to pick up the dirty, threadbare blankets with newly shaking hands.

“When they take me down… to rest…”

“No.”

“Please…”

“No.” Such an easy sound to make, no.

“…why?”

Just one word, and it would eat away at him. Inside, outside, in front of his eyes. Why? Why was this person no longer a person? Why was a live man a corpse, feeding his blood to another corpse, a pale death’s head who’d surely skirted his fate a hundred times. Look at those scars. The warboy drinking the blood through the tube in his arm looked dead. Who allowed this swapping of life?

“…please…”

He’d be too weak to talk, soon, with the blood pouring out and vertigo confusing him.

“…please…”

Where had he come from?

“Shut up. I said no.”

How long had he been a prisoner?

“…you know this isn’t right…”

“Shut up or I’ll shut you up,” Stray growled. Each word was like a shard in his stomach.  _This isn’t you._

“There is no ‘me’,” Stray ground his teeth. The bloodbag moaned again.

“Don’t talk ta them,” a small, belligerent voice from somewhere near his calves. A Warpup Redthumb. Tiny, fierce, and already scarred right across his little chest. “Ain’t s’posed to talk ta them. You big boys oughta know!”

“He’s the one talking,” Stray opposed. “Won’t shut up.”

Quick as a lizard, the Pup whipped a rag from his belt and jammed it between the Bloodbag’s teeth. He grabbed the upside-down head by the ears and hissed.

“Won’t talk anymore,” he announced, then turned, alert. At the end of the pulsating bloodline, the Warboy receiving his fuel rolled over and threw up.

“Organic!” the Pup called out, and ran to find his boss, throwing a “Clean that up!” to  Stray over his shoulder.

“Taking orders from Pups,” the Warboy croaked, rolling over. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Ain’t you too sick to talk shit?” Stray muttered, bending over the mess. The little puddle stank, but not much worse than their daily meals. The Warboy reached out with a weak limb, some playful swat.

“Don’t like this Bloodbag,” he sighed. “‘S the right blood but something is sour. I like the one with…the broken nose…”

“Think that one’s dead,” Stray replied matter-of-factly. Inside him something screamed in disbelief.

“Jus’ my luck.”

“Better than his,” Stray pointed up. The Warboy opened his eyes wide, then relaxed again.

“We’re not to blame,” he murmured. “Don’t try to right the wrongs of the dying world. We are half-life and our only salvation is Valhalla, our only Redeemer the Immortan.” His hand groped again. “We’re not to blame.”

“Out of the way!” Organic’s slurring voice was urgent. Stray gathered up the dirty rag and stepped back to let the mechanic tend to the Warboy. The Pups gathering to help pushed him further and further out until he could no longer see what was happening.

“By my deeds, I honour him,” came a solemn breath from behind. He turned. He’d ended up right by the entrance to the Shrine, where the light seemed to fall as unchanging as if its beams were cast in steel. The altar flickered with fire, too- small guzzoline lamps burning in offering. A Warboy knelt in front, his arms raised in the V8 knit, his head bowed low, every muscle of his back tense in the effort of worship.

Stray watched and waited for him to rise, but he did not. Impossibly long, he remained in that uncomfortable pose. Like a frozen statue he knelt, only murmuring a prayer every now and then. Stray’s own limbs ached in sympathy.

“We are not to blame,” he thought he heard the Warboy whisper. But a Redthumb noticed his slacking and he was pointed back to his chores again. As he worked, Stray cast glances over his shoulder to see the praying Warboy leave the altar, but he did not appear.

The bloodbag and his leech were both silent.


End file.
